Things I Love
Dear cute old-ish tall man with a beard:
You walk your son to school every morning. Every weekday morning at precisely 8:17am, at the corner by CVS, I see you two exit the metro as I walk toward it. Sometimes you wear colorful ties that make me laugh. Your beard has strands of gray that make you seem thoughtful. I like how you always hold your son's hand or put your arm on his shoulder (you must have long arms because you are reallllllly tall and he's probably 8 and thus not so tall). And don't even get me started on how cute your son is.
Sometimes you see me staring (okay, okay, I admit that I have a staring problem) and you smile at me and I think that you are inwardly laughing at the ridiculous girl who stares. Sometimes we make eye contact and we smile and say "hello." Whenever I wear my pink and green polka-dot rainboots, you give me a laughing smile. And when I am carrying cupcakes to work, as I so often do, you look intrigued.
I love my morning commute because in a sea of people, I feel quite alone and introspective. But this smile, nod, laugh, unspoken companionship from you never fails to make my mornings. It's a little human contact even where I need none. It's a glimpse of solidarity and even a sort of friendship before I head into the crowded, overwhelming, rush-hour underground. It's a reminder of family in a place that is so career-oriented. It's what I want someday from a husband. It's frosting on my morning cake.
But I think it's the way you relate to your son that makes me adore you so. Once, I was running late, and I saw you in the metro sans son (you must have already dropped him off). I even got on the same metro car as you did. But I wasn't drawn to you. Funny how that works. I like you for your fatherhood. Whatever the appeal, thank you. Thank you for the joy you bring me every morning, for the smile you bring to my lips, for the warmth that radiates through my body, and for the humanity.
Yours, even in the pouring rain and blustery DC wind,
Maggie
You walk your son to school every morning. Every weekday morning at precisely 8:17am, at the corner by CVS, I see you two exit the metro as I walk toward it. Sometimes you wear colorful ties that make me laugh. Your beard has strands of gray that make you seem thoughtful. I like how you always hold your son's hand or put your arm on his shoulder (you must have long arms because you are reallllllly tall and he's probably 8 and thus not so tall). And don't even get me started on how cute your son is.
Sometimes you see me staring (okay, okay, I admit that I have a staring problem) and you smile at me and I think that you are inwardly laughing at the ridiculous girl who stares. Sometimes we make eye contact and we smile and say "hello." Whenever I wear my pink and green polka-dot rainboots, you give me a laughing smile. And when I am carrying cupcakes to work, as I so often do, you look intrigued.
I love my morning commute because in a sea of people, I feel quite alone and introspective. But this smile, nod, laugh, unspoken companionship from you never fails to make my mornings. It's a little human contact even where I need none. It's a glimpse of solidarity and even a sort of friendship before I head into the crowded, overwhelming, rush-hour underground. It's a reminder of family in a place that is so career-oriented. It's what I want someday from a husband. It's frosting on my morning cake.
But I think it's the way you relate to your son that makes me adore you so. Once, I was running late, and I saw you in the metro sans son (you must have already dropped him off). I even got on the same metro car as you did. But I wasn't drawn to you. Funny how that works. I like you for your fatherhood. Whatever the appeal, thank you. Thank you for the joy you bring me every morning, for the smile you bring to my lips, for the warmth that radiates through my body, and for the humanity.
Yours, even in the pouring rain and blustery DC wind,
Maggie
posted by Maggie at 6:33 AM
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